


Dark Eyes

by mapofthestars



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Based on a song, Emotional Growth, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Vignette, as much as Athos can manage emotional growth, i can't remember, it's been a while since I watched it, might follow series story lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapofthestars/pseuds/mapofthestars
Summary: A series of vignettes follows Athos' healing process set to the lyrics of the chorus from Dark Eyes by All The Luck In The World.(Stand by your glasses steady, and drink to your comrades eyes. Here's a toast to the dead already, and hurrah for those still to die)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Dark Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written anything in years so this is entirely the blame of the lockdown and my friend insisting I do Camp NaNoWriMo with her.

**Stand by your glasses steady**

Smoke plumed gracefully from the barrel of the gun. The straw dummy was not so graceful as it tumbled to the ground. Athos lowered his gun and returned it securely to its holster. Beside him twin cracks signalled Porthos and Aramis taking their shots.

Even the small amount of smoke drifting into his nostrils sent Athos’ nostrils flaring, brain reeling, body standing firm. Athos had long trained his body not to react to all the stimuli that affect him; he had seen and lost too much to not go through his days in pain. To Porthos and Aramis, nothing was amiss. Athos stood between them in the seconds as they replaced their pistols. But for Athos, he was replaying those moments in his mind, always those moments.

His ancestral family home, his chateau burning.

Milady standing above him.

The smoke stung his eyes.

His head lolled, consciousness swam around him.

It was a weird thing, Athos reflected, to lose consciousness in your memory as your self in its present moment retains its awareness. It wouldn’t do me any good to faint every time my head decides to torment me, Athos thought wryly. To Porthos, Athos slapped his shoulder, to Aramis, Athos shot a look as he turned away. Aramis just grinned back, his signature smirk as the three left their shooting ground. To those who didn’t know them, it sometimes seemed like the three Musketeers moved via magic, knowing where they would go without any of them seeing to give any indication of deciding it.

As they evening drew in, they gravitated almost naturally to the office of Treville.

“When are we getting something to do, Treville?” Aramis asked.

“You know that entirely depends on when Louis asks for you,” Treville said. “Or when you three inevitably find some trouble to drag yourselves into.”

The three Musketeers left with small grins and the loosest of plans; find some fun.

**And drink to**

Today was not his day, Athos thought miserably. Usually his body outperformed his brain. Not today. It was the sort of emotional pain that was too great for his brain to handle, that spread down his nerves and filled his whole body. And that was where the wine came in. If you couldn’t feel your body, if your brain was numbed and slowed to unconciousness, then you couldn’t feel the pain.

‘It’s just a shame my alcohol tolerance is so high I can’t even drink myself to numbness anymore’ Athos sighed. He glanced around at the empty bottles surrounding him. One, two, three, four, five, six. ‘I shouldn’t be conscious, I certainly shouldn’t be able to think and move.’ Athos raised his arm to reach for the bottle closest to him. Or rather, he tried to move his arm. ‘Ah, I can think, I can’t move. The worst combination of drunk’

Athos was left to lie there, alone with the thoughts moving sluggishly through his brain. Milady de Winter, his wife. His brother. His own failings. The deep, unchangeable dark parts of him that he knew in his soul made him unworthy of saving. Every shot he’d been slightly too slow to take, every parry he’d been slightly off. Every time his friends, Aramis, Porthos, had got hurt because of his failings.

Of course, sober Athos would sometimes be able to remember all the bruises and falls he’d taken for his brothers-in-arms. He’d be able to rationalise that their line of work was dangerous. That they took bullets and sword cuts for each other, and his brothers were as happy to put their lives on the line for him as he was for them. But even in the good times, Athos would normally end up thinking that he could get injured for his brothers, but it wasn’t okay for them to get hurt for him.

But he was not dealing with sober rational Athos today. D’Artagnan. Naïve D’Artagnan. The boy, hurting so much from his lost father. His family. Athos’ family. His brother. Milady de Winter. Funny how everything always revolved around her, constantly returning to her in a neverending cycle.

Like the cycle of his drinking, if only he had more wine.

**Your comrades eyes**

Aramis has dark brown eyes, Athos thought. He wasn’t about to romanticise anything. Aramis’ eyes were not chocolate, hazelnut, copper or even mud. They were simply Aramis’ eyes. Of the four of them, Aramis was able to show the widest variants of emotions through his face. You could read Aramis easily, and if you knew him well, you could see the mask of whatever specific emotion he was trying to portray.

Normally this was smoulder, or sex, or lust. Call it what you want, Aramis knew what he wanted and was good at getting it. But Athos could usually see underneath that mask. Porthos could too, probably better than Athos. They could both see Aramis’s tangled emotions whenever he was around Anne. That was a mess which would come back to haunt the Musketeers, Athos was sure of it. And then there was the guilt and grief Aramis couldn’t hide whenever he saw Athos and his surrounding wine bottles. They shone out of his eyes, even when his mouth was twisted into a wry smile and saying that he was pleased to see Athos that morning.

Porthos’ eyes were a window to his soul, as cliched as that sounds. He didn’t project his emotions out like Aramis, he invited you in to see him for who he was. Ironic, Athos thought, since very few knew anything about Porthos’ past, his history, what his inner thoughts really were. You didn’t see emotions in Porthos’ eyes, instead you got a sense that he felt all his emotions throughout his whole soul. He didn’t feel strong, he was strength, he didn’t feel grief, he was grief.

And it pained Athos that sometimes he looked into Porthos’ eyes and saw grief that he had caused. Grief clouds brown eyes in strange ways; it changes the colour in an almost indescribable way. But it’s different depending on whether the grief is past or present. Athos understood old grief very well, he could almost see himself reflected in Porthos’ eyes whenever either of them thought about the past. It’s certainly why Athos tried to do it at little as he possibly could. But sometimes he couldn’t help it, and that’s when the alcohol became his only solution, and when he could see Porthos’s entire soul filling with grief at the state Athos was in.

D’Artagnan’s eyes were still growing, still developing into his adulthood. Maybe one day his eyes would get as dark as his hair, Athos mused. D’Artagnan was probably the only one of them who didn’t carry his grief around with him. To be sure, there was grief at his father’s death which clouded his eyes occassionally. But D’Artagnan was doing something about his grief, in a way that Athos was trying to but mostly failing. D’Artagnan had turned his grief into passion, a burning fire that bubbled within in. Any fire Athos had ever been able to kindle he’d quenched in alcohol, drowned it in the drinks he’d poured into himself.

D’Artagnan also had dark brown eyes now Athos thought about it. All of them did; Aramis, Porthos, D’Artagnan. He was the outsider again, with his blue eyes. His eyes never sparkled, never glowed in the way he saw in Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan. He was the odd one out in his little group of four. Separated by the things he’d seen, and more importantly, the things he’d done.

**Here’s a toast**

Athos had tried to drink on Monday, but then someone started shooting at him.

Athos had wanted to drink on Tuesday, but he was still dealing with the aftermath of people shooting at him.

Athos had been too tired to have more than a couple of drinks on Wednesday, mostly due to all the people who had been bloody shooting at him since the week had started.

Athos had tried to drink on Thursday, but his friends had sidetracked him and with their eyes on him all night, he hadn’t felt comfortable thoughtlessly downing bottles of wine.

Strange, he’d never considered whether he was comfortable drinking or not. He just drank. It was a statement, a fact unchanged by any surrounding factor. He didn’t know whether this change made him happy or not.

It was now Friday; his friends had left him alone. Athos was sat on his bunk, gently holding latest bottle of wine. He only had one bottle in his rooms. For the briefest of seconds he considered not drinking the bottle. And then he dismissed that thought as stupid, of course he was going to drink the bottle.

He wouldn’t say that his hands were shaking as they uncorked the bottle. He did not have a problem thank you very much. But the first sip of wine hitting his throat was a balm to his body and soul. Sweet sweet wine…

**To the dead already**

“No.” Athos replied shortly.

“Why not? What could be the issue? We’ll be there with you this time, it’s not like Milady’s going to take us by surprise again. Hell, there’s no way she’s even going to be there.” said Aramis.

“No, I have enough ghosts there, I don’t need to go and reopen all those wounds.”

“But maybe you do, Athos” D’Artagnan added quietly. “All of this is eating you up inside and I,” he looked around the four of them, “we think it would be a good idea. We’ve already spoken to Treville,” he added before Athos could start his lengthy list of reasons why this would be a bad idea.

And before he knew it, Athos was riding to his ancestral home, a place full of nothing but bad memories. A very small part of him was actually positive about this, which was very out of character for Athos. The rest of him was overtly sceptical, as was entirely natural for him.

Riding up to the building was… difficult. Difficult is a good word, thought Athos. His breath was feeling trapped in his chest, like he had to physically force the air out of his lungs. All these physical and mental feelings swirling inside him, best summed up as difficult.

Athos didn’t think he could walk through the front door. He couldn’t stride in like he owned the place, it felt wrong. The others didn’t push him, but simply let him lead them through one of the side doors. Walking the stairs, touching the wood, the walls, everything that was burnt and rotten. It felt like the physical manifestation of his past; burnt and rotten but for some inexplicable reason still standing.

The first night was hard. Athos didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep. He could feel his ghosts swirling round him. There was everyone, not just those who had died around this house, not just those who were dead. Whenever it seemed like it was it was all too much, he focussed in on his comrades breathing. He couldn’t focus on himself but their breathing was comforting. To know that his brothers trusted him to be there alone, trusted that he wouldn’t go and do something stupid was like a huge weight that Athos didn’t even know he was carrying.

Athos didn’t go find his brother’s grave. That wasn’t something he needed to see, he didn’t think it would help him to see the mound of earth and a piece of stone. The demons he needed to banish were not beneath the ground. He did walk around his property, looking at the grave from the distance of a nearby hill. He couldn’t see the grave itself, but he knew where it was. It felt strange to walk with no purpose than to simply walk. It seemed like in his line of work he was either running at someone, away from someone or striding purposefully to somewhere. To walk with no purpose felt alien but he did it anyway. He did have a purpose he supposed, to survey his property and always return him back to the house and his friends.

Athos didn’t think that his hands stopped shaking for the entire time there, but maybe in a very weird way his mind stopped shaking. It was only at the end of the third day that Athos realised he hadn’t drunk anything. And then he solved that by drinking a bottle of wine.

“What, did you think this little trip would change me overnight?” he fired at Aramis.

“No, Athos” Aramis replied kindly. “Just that it’ll start a road to getting you somewhere better. That’s all we’re asking of you, Athos, that’s all we need.”

**And hurrah**

The Musketeers as a unit didn’t have any particular reason to throw parties. There was no anniversary, they’d all stopped caring about their respective birthdays (apart from Aramis, but he used the fact it was his birthday for very different reasons) and they rarely celebrated successful missions. But sometimes, just sometimes, something in them decided to celebrate that night.

They started at a bar and tucked themselve away in a corner table. Usually Porthos would be out playing cards, trying to trick the tricksters, but tonight the four of them stayed together. They were at that bar for barely an hour, reliving the less sensitive parts of their lives. It wouldn’t do well for important information to end up in the hands of someone’s spy, for you never could know who else was sitting in a bar around you.

However it wasn’t long before they left, weaving their way through the streets. At one point Athos thought Aramis might have started singing. Actually he was fairly certain Aramis was singing, he definitely remembered remarking to him that he sounded like a strangled cat. Athos may have laughed at one point, but he would resoundingly refuse that that had happened.

There were brief discussions of heading to D’Artagnan’s, but Porthos’ calmer head prevailed and convinced them that Constance would not appreciate being woken up by them all drunk in the early hours of the morning. Athos put up his token refusal at his rooms, so they stumbled their way back to where Porthos and Aramis lived. The people who lived around them had long since got used to some drunken antics from Porthos and Aramis, so four Musketeers traipsing in late at night (or early in the morning) wasn’t too much of a problem.

By the point that Athos was laid out in one of Aramis’ chairs, comfortable and warm, he realised that the alcohol was having some sort of effect on him, something that he’d not experienced in a long time. The alcohol wasn’t making her nervous, or blank, or bringing back any sort of bad memories. It was simply in his system, adding a small amount of comfort, with the rest made of up of spending his time surrounded by his friends. Maybe this was happiness, thought Athos.

“I don’t often get all philosophical, but I do sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I’d not met you all. Who would I have been? Would I still be angry and naïve?”

“Don’t lie, D’Artagnan,” Aramis chuckled, lazily throwing a shirt from the floor at his head. “You get philosophical any time we put enough alcohol in you.”

Athos silently thought about D’Artagnan’s questions. Normally he would join in ribbing D’Artagnan, but this time he actually considered his questions. Who would Athos have been if he’d not met the three men currently sitting around him? He could only be grateful that he had.

“A toast!” Porthos said from out of nowhere. “All for one, and one for all!”

Athos could drink to that.

**For those still to die**

Athos never thought he’d be standing at Treville’s funeral. That Treville was alive seemed an unescapable fact of life, one he had always taken for granted. The Three Musketeers, and even D’Artagnan, although he’d known the grizzled captain less time than the others, had always assumed that Treville would be able to smooth over the troubles they inevitably caused at court.

The streets around the Musketeers headquarters were packed. Athos didn’t recognise half the people in the crowd; clearly Treville’s influence had spread further than the Musketeers had ever realised. So many lives touched by one person, it was strange for Athos to consider that.

“I never thought he’d die,” Porthos said quietly.

“Me neither.” Athos took a deep breath. He couldn’t articulate what he was feeling, it was too difficult, too much.

“We’re still alive though. In memory of Treville, we go on living our lives,” Aramis said.

“For those still to die.” D’Artagnan said quietly.

“For those still to die.” The other three echoed.

“And may that death be a long time coming.” Athos added.


End file.
